


A Study in Fur

by orphan_account



Series: Of Mysteries and Mice [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bailey is back, Felines, Gen, M/M, in the form of Sherlock, rodents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10939089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock, as it was understood by most of the residents living in the streets of London, was no normal rat. He wore a scrap of blue fabric around his neck, wrote in human script, and was out in the bustling city far more than necessary. His IQ was above average and his preferred activity was experimenting with rat poison (or anything he found in the kitchens). Not any of this, however,  bothered John. In fact, he had been the one who had found Sherlock in the first place.





	A Study in Fur

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I really like rats. And cats. And The Great Mouse Detective. So.....here.

John remembered always snuggling up to his mother's side to suckle when she wove stories of daring rodents and terrifying foes, listened as her voice and her sweet scent wafted through the air like warm honey on sourdough bread (his favorite). He remembered being shoved away roughly by his sister, Harriet, and nibbling at her russet-colored ear playfully as she took over, could recall their laughter as they tussled across the wooden beams. Faded as they were the longer he lived, John never forgot the tales of the infamous Sherlock, of his action-filled adventures as he ran from alley cats and silly antics toward his brother. 

He remembered lots of things, really, none of which he had cared to look back on until now, as his shoulder sung in pain, his bandaged stump of a tail doing nothing to take his mind off it. London was its usual tangle of people, mice, and felines, and John hadn't realized how much he had missed the dirty air of this city until he stepped into it again. It was of course different from where he had grown up, in the dusty attic of a barn, but as he scampered through throngs of bustling feet, John found he didn't care a whisker. 

Returning from the sweltering sands of Afghanistan had proven to be one of the hardest feats he had ever faced. Between the pitying glances and altogether stares he had received upon his arrival, John was just about ready to punch something if he didn't find a permanent hole soon. Especially taking into account that a tan coat like his wasn't the most common colour for a city rat, nor one with such high knowledge of medical procedures. John waddled down the pavement at a painstakingly slow pace, wincing at each step he took--his balance, because of the lack of a fully grown tail, was now wonky and had him precariously wobbling to the side every three paces. 

"John! John!" A high pitched squeak called from behind him, and John turned after the second shout with his ears twitching. Another rodent was huffing and puffing his way toward him, chubby body slowing his progress profusely, but there was a shimmer of recognition in his worn brown eyes. "Mike from the Stamford Clan. We grew up on the same farm together?" The rat panted out and extended a strong paw. 

John looked over him once, and just as he was about to politely rebuke the attempt at conversation, Mike broke in with a slightly frantic quiver of his whiskers. "I know-I got fat. Walk with me?" And before he could even try to protest a chubby arm was wrapped around his shoulders and steering him away from his intended route. 

"Heard you were stuck in the middle of a battle of tooth and claw. What happened?" John smiled humorlessly in attempt to come off as indifferent to his situation, but was aware that he looked anything but. His drooping shoulders and dragging of his tail displayed that, at least. "I was bit," he answered simply, and that was that. 

They walked in partial silence to what John now recognized as a coffee shop minus the occasional awkward one-liner of Mike trying to strike up conversation. It was a torch that couldn't light, however, and he eventually gave up trying after a specially stubborn pause. By the time they both reached the alleyway behind the cafe and entered the alternate mice-sized one, the sun had already risen to the sky in a cheery greeting to midday, and John was exhausted. 

He stood silently as the black rat ordered coffee beans (he preferred tea-not that he would say that, he was far too polite) and said nothing when they retreated to a small table in the corner. He made sure to nibble at the small source of caffeine with his hind paws jerking occasionally at the stiff silence that befell them. "So," Mike chirped rough a mouthful of black coffee. "What're you doing back in London, John? Got a nice place to stay?" Despite himself, John couldn't help but snort at the innocent question. Please; as if any holetel would accept a disabled and discolored rat into their midst. He was sure it would scare off half customers. 

Instead he found himself replying with a far more strained tone than what he had expected, "only so much you can afford on an army pension in this city." And John would swear his entire left paw that the moment he had said it, his unexpected companion's chocolate brown eyes had flared with something akin to mischievousness. Mike leaned forward conspiratorially, slightly over grown claws clicking against the slab of splintered wood between them. "What happened to calling Harry? We country rodents have to stick together," 

John scrunched his snout in disgust at the thought of his sister; last he had seen of her, she had given him a phone and slurred drunkenly, "call me. I do worry, brother." He had tried to inform her of the dangers of a rat's body absorbing too much alcohol, let alone ripened grapes left in the garbage over a week, but she spent most of her days eating shiraz and bemoaning her late mate, Clara (who had been caught in a mouse trap earlier that year). "No. Last thing I need is another patient to watch over. What I really need is a holeshare-" and there was no mistaking it this time, the pudgy rat practically leaping across the table and promptly scattering both their beans onto the floor. 

"What a coincidence," Mike exclaimed with excited flicking of his tail. "A man this morning told me the same thing," John didn't even need to ask if he could see them. It was obvious in his accomplice's body language that he was expected to meet them, most likely the expectation Mike had since he had lain eyes on the hobbling and injured rat. So, John sighed, and questioned warily, "who, exactly, was the first?" 

++++++

The entrance to Saint Barthemeows, John came to understand, was both designed for felines and rodents. It was a parody of sorts to Bart's other than the fact that it was practically teeming with busy animals going about their daily jobs. He watched, awe and satisfaction blooming at the base of his tail and crawling up his spine, as a siamese wandered past him carrying an injured elderly mouse in a sling. 

The chubby rat beside him was nearly vibrating with energy as he scurried past various employees, greeting each as he passed with John. It was difficult to keep up with his speed, slices of pain throbbing in his leg each step he took, but he pushed on with nothing more than a pained grunt. Twigs that were designed to be support did come in handy, he supposed, when crowds seemed to part like waves for a disabled veteran. 

Mike shifted from foot to foot impatiently, wringing his paws together in anticipation as John limped up to both him and the medium-sized door he was waiting at. One that had a smaller hole to accompany it, he noted silently, and slipped through it without waiting for his guide to do so first. What he saw very nearly took his breath away. Contraptions of all shapes and sizes littered the room, various and strangely colored liquids pumping through plastic pipes or bubbling in glass vials over a burner. Posters decorated the usually blindingly white walls with depictions of both the human and cat anatomy, surrounded by newspaper clippings which held no significance to John whatsoever. 

What really caught his eye was the lithe mouse in the center of all the chaos. He was bent over a microscope, whip thin tail waving idly in the air and baby blue eyes staring intently at whatever was being subjected to this amount of scrutiny. He wore a shred of what John assumed to be a torn piece of silk wrapped carelessly around his neck, with a coat so dark he could've sworn the creature was a shadow in disguise. The only thing giving the illusion away were the white paws and chest--his fur was neatly groomed and taken care of, muscles rippling under the thin frame. 

John swallowed and blinked slowly at the bubble of heat rising in his throat, and before he could stop it the burning fire broke out of his mouth in a confident sentence. "Bit different from my day." He commented idly, nearly flinching back in embarrassment as the mysterious mouse glanced over at them in uninterest, then turned his attention back to his work. "I got the coffee you ordered," a gentle voice whispered from behind him and it sounded so much like a mouse that when John look over his shoulder he very nearly collapsed in shock. A york chocolate cat stood timidly behind them, holding a steaming styrofoam cup in her jaw. 

For the moment instinct got in the way of reason, John's only thought was to save the tall rodent that had expertly captured his attention. When the scientist (he was assuming that's what he was) turned to snatch it from her mouth and nearly inhaled the steaming liquid, he realized that no, the feline was not about to attack and kill them, and yes, she did seem like one to befriend this strange specimen. "Thank you, Molly," 

He watched in awe as the--Molly shifted from paw to paw in front of the male seemingly unaware of the rapidly developing awkward environment, before mumbling something unintelligible and padding out again without another word. It felt as if a conversation had been held in front of him, John being none the wiser--he somehow believed that to be a correct hunch. "Mike, can I borrow your phone?" The mouse asked abruptly and before he knew it, John was reaching into the satchel he kept with him at all times to hand him Harry's when Mike replied dismissively. 

Surprised eyes met his briefly before icing over into indifference, the mouse strolling over with his slender paw already extended. "Thank you," he replied nonchalantly and paced back and forth as he typed god-knows-what into the small instrument. John was just about ready to allow his attention to waver when the same deep voice, almost a purr, broke him from his thoughts. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" John looked up, startled, as the phone was once again pressed firmly into his palm with certainty. 

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked again impatiently before John could get a reply out, and, against his better judgment, bristled at the agitated voice directed toward him. "A-Afghanistan. Wait, how did you--," Mike coughed from where he had strolled over to examine the many vials of substances and looked up with a cheeky grin of innocence. "This is my old friend from my hometown, John Watson," he introduced cheerily. As if this rodent hadn't just spouted a question he had no business in asking. 

"You....told him about me." Even as he said this, he had an aching suspicion that it wasn't true. From the surprise that the chubby rat expressed when he had first turned around, that was a very unlikely scenario. "Not a word." Mike promised with a self-pleased smile; the rest was a whir of amazement, confusion, and awe as the whirlwind of a mouse stopped at the threshold. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." 

With a jerk of his tail and a wink not mistaken for anything other than flirtation, John found himself dazed and excited to meet this Sherlock Holmes. He would be lucky to get a space with the string bean. "I know your brother has a drinking problem, and had given away his phone--divorce, he split it up, would keep it if he was the one being left. I know you were bitten in the shoulder in Afghanistan and came back to London from Kandahar, and that your tail was amputated. I know that you have a therapist who is quite right about your limp being psychosomatic. Do get a new one, an adrenaline addict shouldn't be counseled on calming their body. That's enough to go off of, don't you think?" Well, John knew who he was going to look up. 

Sitting at his crooked table in his dingy little hole, he typed in the name 'Sherlock Holmes'.


End file.
